Jun. 14th, 2010

This being an adult thing is utter, unmitigated bullshit. I come home from work, exhausted. Self-medicate on the couch and fret endlessly over ever-amounting debt, both mine and the Engineer's. I write long and grandious lists of groceries, things needing tending, and string together repetitive financial statements. All in an effort to get my affairs into order.

I am so far behind on getting my gear together for school. I'm not starting funeral school in the fall because of the cock-up with the two classes they say I need. So, I have to take them at CCC, which means re-applying for every single thing under the sun. I graduated. My files are no longer open to just tack things on to the end. It is frustrating and galling. Half the time, I wonder what the goddamn point of any of this actually is. I know I should contact the school and get this show on the road, but I can't be bothered. I am stuck, my feet are frozen in place. And no amount of shoving the old mule is going to make it turn its head to the road.

The depression which has lately settled around my shoulders is an old, familiar coat. It's slightly comforting in its familiarity at least. I am able to stretch my limbs against its contours, occasionally allowing an arm or a hip to poke through into the open air. This coat is soft and full of sleep. I used to pull it around me, makeshift armor against everyday wounds. But, now? It is a field of poppies and I can feel it clawing around my legs in an effort to get me to lie down amongst the flowers.

I've been trying to build my nest against the coming winter for so many years, but sometimes I really just want to give up. Not in the open-a-vein sense, never anything nearly as garish and ridiculous as that. But, more so, by following in my mother's footsteps. She gave up her dreams of what may be for an uncomplicated and easy life, sleeping quietly in the poppy field. It was work, sure, but it was the shifting sands of endless paperwork and constant 9 to 5. Unobstructed. Palatable. Simple. I am a lazy cat and the idea of not needing to put all that much thought or energy into my day to day is more than a little appealing. It's downright seductive.

And even now, at only the barest breath of the thought, I can feel that goddamn magpie rocketing awake and clamouring against the notion in a riot of feathers and gall.

Are you stuck on stupid? It shrieks at me. I can feel it rising up, filling my body with its ire. It bumps aggressively against my breast bone, a sharp pain that causes my heart to stumble in place. Don't you dare. You stupid cow, don't you fucking dare.